Chapter Text
The cell door slammed shut, the clang of metal ricocheting through his skull. A lantern, surely fueled by magic, burned at least fifteen feet away from the cell door, the edges of its beams barely reaching his prison. He squinted in the darkness, attempting to make out his what lay beyond the cell but he noted nothing but the table on which the lamp was propped.
Though his hands were not bound, heavy chains latched around his ankles, attaching him to the back wall of the meager cell that could not have been more than a six foot square. A single blanket was piled in the corner, lumpy and smelling of mildew. Near the front sat a small bucket he supposed was meant to allow him to relieve himself.
He had awoken fifteen minutes prior, slowly getting his bearings as he shook off the heaviness of unnatural sleep. The last thing he could recall was sipping from a freshly served tankard and winking at the pretty barmaiden who had served him. He had been performing at the Seven Cats Inn, just outside Novigrad. The night had been the same as any other, as booze flowed freely, so did coin. When he had finished for the evening, a rousing last round of Burn Butcher Burn, he had slumped into a bar seat more in the hope that he might talk the lovely lady behind the bar into spending a night with him than interested in drinking. Unfortunately, he had imbibed nonetheless, and the world had drifted away becoming hazier and hazier.
Then he woke up in his cell.
No one had entered the room since he had awoken. Searching his memories of the evening, he tried to recall anything unusual. A strange comment, an untrustworthy expression in the crowd, a lingering shadow. But nothing came to mind.
A pained scream shattered the silence and brought Jaskier back to the present. It was the third shout he had heard since waking, and it made him shudder just as deeply as each of the others had. He knew it wouldn’t be long until the screams belonged to him. It had been over a year since he had last traveled with Geralt, but he wondered if the witcher would bother to avenge him when he realized the fate Jaskier had met. If he bothered to look, that is.
A heavy door slammed in the distance. Footsteps followed a few seconds later. Two men swept into the room, dragging a third body between them, its head hung low. “Just turns into nothing but nonsense. Thought they made ‘em stronger than that.” One of the men grumbled to the other.
Suddenly the limp man’s head shot up, bright green cat slit eyes meeting Jaskier’s. “You came.” The man – witcher he realized – slurred. “You’re here.”
“Little bard just knows all the witchers, that it?” The man furthest from Jaskier jeered.
Jaskier pressed against the bars of his cell squinting at the witcher. He could see dark hair plastered to the man’s forehead, but couldn’t make out his face fully. The man was lithe, shorter and lighter than any of the wolf witchers he had met. “Never seen him before in my life.” Jaskier declared honestly. Perhaps the men would let him out if they realized he wasn’t associated with the witcher.
The witcher whimpered and muttered, “No, no.” He let his head drop again and the men tossed him into a cell next to Jaskiers. The thud of hid body collapsing on the ground echoed through the room. Jaskier grimaced as the man moaned. The two men who had carried him in left without another word.
“Witcher.” He tried once he heard the sound of the door closing somewhere down the hall. There was no reply, so he tried again, “Witcher.” When the man did not respond, Jaskier slid to the ground, letting hid head fall back against the cool stone wall that divided him from the other man. Either he had slipped into unconsciousness or he did not wish to speak to Jaskier. Neither option was anymore reassuring as Jaskier pictured himself being dragged back to his own cell in the same state as the witcher. Perhaps it would be kinder if the men would kill him outright.
---
Jaskier wasn’t certain when he had fallen asleep, but he woke to a mocking voice calling, “Rise and shine!” It was overly cheery, dripping with honey as a man drew near the cell. Jaskier realized a there was a small window just below the ceiling on the other side of the room. It allowed only a minimal amount of light to enter, but enough to know that it was day.
A man with greying hair, a scar over the bridge of his nose, and a thick beard approached Jaskier’s cell. Over his simple shirt, the man wore a leather chest piece and bracers. He bent down and slipped a tray with a bowl full of porridge sludge into the cell. “Eat up.” He grunted before moving on to the cell next to Jaskiers. The man set the other tray he had been carrying in the witcher’s cell. Then he pulled a small bottle of pale green liquid from his pocket and rolled it into the cell. “Drink it. He wants another go tonight.”
A scrabbling sound, crawling on hands and knees Jaskier suspected, was followed by the pop of a cork. Then the bottle rolled back out of the cell, coming to rest at the toe of the guard’s boot. Seemingly satisfied the man tucked the bottle back into his pocket and left the room. Once again, Jaskier waited until he heard the door close before attempting conversation with the man.
“Was that swallow? It looked like swallow.” Jaskier asked. A few moments passed in silence before he continued, hoping the man might eventually be comfortable enough to speak with him. “I only ask because it seems rather odd that they would do, well, whatever it is that they did to you last night and then patch you up with swallow this morning.”
Still the witcher said nothing.
“Perhaps you do not wish to discuss that. Very well. Do you know where we are?” No response. “Do you know what they want from us? Why we are here?” Jaskier supposed they were torturing the witcher for information, information they believed Jaskier held as well. He sighed when the man remained silent.
Finally the witcher spoke, weary but no longer slurred and incoherent. “Who are you?”
“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Better known as the bard, Jaskier.” Jaskier declared, hoping that the name might earn him some trust from the witcher. No other bard was known for singing the praises of witchers the way he was.
The witcher hummed. “The toss a coin bard?” He asked and Jaskier let out a breath in relief.
“That very one!” He knew his cheer sounded forced, but he was in a goddamn prison cell after all.
A few seconds passed in silence until Jaskier decided he would wait no more. “And this is where you tell me who you are.”
“A witcher.” The witcher answered dismissively.
“I figured that much.” Jaskier scoffed. “Your name?”
“Not something you need to know.” The man’s tone left no room for argument.
He snorted. “So shall I simply call you ‘witcher’ then.”
“If it pleases you.” Jaskier could almost hear the smirk in the witcher’s tone, and Jaskier smiled to himself. He was already breaking through the man’s hard exterior. Spending years at Geralt’s side had required far more patience for half the progress.
“What do they want with me?” Jaskier asked.
“I don’t know.” The witcher replied, and Jaskier believed him.
---
They didn’t come for him that night. Instead, they dragged the nameless witcher away again. It was still light – just barely – when they came for the witcher. As they pulled him past Jaskier’s cell, he took advantage of the last dregs of sunlight to glimpse a better look at the man.
Unlike Jaskier, the witcher’s wrists were cuffed, and a chain connected his ankles, only allowing him enough slack to move forward in something of a waddle. He had tawny skin, warm and rich, a tone common among those raised far in the south. His black hair was shoulder length, tangled in knots and ragged at the ends. He was clothed only in trousers. He barely saw the front of the man’s body before he was pulled past Jaskier’s cell, but he glimpsed black the dark thread of stitches marring the man’s torso.
Jaskier’s pulse raced as his eyes fell upon the criss cross marks, still raised and red, across his back. The witcher was still well muscled, though far from top form. He was built light and lean, but the way his ribs were so visibly under his skin highlighted his malnourishment and made Jaskier wonder how long he had been held captive.
Just before they tugged him into the hallway, the witcher glanced toward Jaskier. The same bright eyes, a captivating shade of green, shone like jewels as he held Jaskier’s gaze. He frowned as he took in Jaskier. Then one of the guards yanked on his arm and the witcher tumbled after him.
Jaskier pressed himself to the bars of his cell when he heard the door opening again. He had only heard a few of the man’s screams that night, but Jaskier had spent enough time around witchers to know that those sounds weren’t so easily elicited from the men. Swallowing down the dread, Jaskier pressed himself against the bars of his cell, waiting for them to bring the witcher back.
Those heavy footsteps echoed against the stone walls, making Jaskier’s heart thud so hard he feared his sternum might snap. The witcher stumbled forward, once again dragged by two guards, but unlike the night before, he was still on his own two feet. Though, from the drunken stagger and way he leaned heavily against the guards, Jaskier doubted he could make it far on his own. In the dim light of the lantern, Jaskier could make out the dark red streaks dripping down his back. It made Jaskier want to cry, but instead he stood paralyzed hands shaking as they gripped the bars of the cell. The men shoved the witcher back in the cell and left without turning to Jaskier.
Jaskier opened his mouth to say something, but no words came to mind. What could he say to comfort the witcher he knew nothing about while he bled on the hard floor with no one and nothing to tend his wounds.
Ten minutes passed in silence, and Jaskier pried his body from the bars. He collapsed back onto the threadbare blanket and curled into a ball on the floor, counting his breaths. “Are you alright?” He finally managed.
“Oh Lamb, I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” The man slurred, his voice wobbling and unsteady like a drunk only a few minutes from leaving the bar. The witcher let out a pitiful whine, different than any noise he had ever heard from their kind despite having seen Geralt in the throws of injuries that were far closer to death than life. “I just don’t know, but I’m trying to wait. I don’t want to give up if you come for me. But I just don’t know if I can do it much longer. Lambert, please.” The man’s voice fell off, dissolving into dry, shuddering noises as the man gasped for breath.
Jaskier’s brows furrowed as he realized the witcher must have been referring to the youngest and most disagreeable of the wolf witchers.